To the Lonely Sea and the Sky
by androidilenya
Summary: Voronwë is no stranger to the call of the Sea.


**(Written a few months ago for the 30 Days of Headcanon challenge.)**

**Title from the poem _Sea Fever_ by John Masefield.**

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They called it _sea-longing_, but for him, it was more than a simple desire, a feeling. It was a physical tug – something that would, at times, lie dormant, allow him to go about his everyday life and almost — _almost_ — forget. It was a pain, sometimes, in the dead of the night, when the stars above were cold and unveiled by the soft fogs and mists he remembered with knife-sharp clarity. He felt it just above his breastbone, and behind his eyes, and in the tips of his fingers, thrumming in time to his heartbeat, whispering in his ear like a seashell-song.

But he was nothing if not loyal to his people, his city. And there was the law, the only unbreakable law (though the King's sister had broken it, and paid with her life in the end). So he contented himself with working, serving, doing all that was asked of him and more, pretending the Sea did not call to him.

(It spoke to him, in dreams, voice soft as a lover's, and he tried to follow that voice but always ended up lost in the mist, and woke sweating and clawing at his sheets.)

Perhaps he worked too hard. Sometimes the others would look at him, concerned, wonder at his apparently tireless labor, the way he always seemed willing to do whatever was needed. He smiled and told himself he worked for the good of the people, and not in a vain attempt to banish the call that never truly went away. Sometimes, it worked — sometimes he could fall into his bed at night and his eyelids would close immediately and there would be no dreams — and he would wake, fully rested, and search for another task to mindlessly complete so he could sleep that night.

He slept alone, of course. It wasn't that there had never been anyone he had courted, it wasn't that females found him somehow repulsive (the opposite was true, in fact), but there was only room for one love in his life, and the Sea was a harsh mistress.

It had been ages of mortal lifetimes since he had seen the Sea, since he had walked on the land beneath the open sky, not bounded in by the mountains and walls of Gondolin. Yet he still remembered the taste of salt spray on his lips, the reflection of starlight on the waves, the cry of the gulls high-pitched as the voices of children.

He survived, of course. He could live with himself, alone in his quarters, and try to get used to the idea that he would never see the Sea again. There was peace, and it was safe in Gondolin, and in wishing to see the Sea once more he was wishing for that peace to be broken. That was a price he was not (should not be, at least) willing to pay, because that was a price all the people of Turgon would pay.

And then tidings of war, and a march to the battlefield, allied with Turgon's brother and his cousin, the Oathtakers and Kinslayers that the King of Gondolin had isolated himself from for so long. Voronwë had marched with them, of course, alongside every soldier of Gondolin. And maybe part of him hoped — rather selfishly — that he would catch a glimpse of that which had haunted his dreams for countless years.

They did not find the Sea.

What they did find was blood, and death, and utter defeat.

Afterwards, he tried to forget all he had seen there, on the field of unnumbered tears. But he had seen the silver and blue banners founder, and heard the battle cry of the faithful Men that held the enemy off long enough for Turgon and his (much depleted) band of soldiers to escape. There was smoke and ruin and more dead than he had ever dreamed, and the mud beneath his feet was dirt mixed with red and black blood.

_Never again_, he had vowed to himself, _never again will I leave Gondolin_. But those were words he found all too easy to banish when the summons came, and when he saw a familiar shape formed of pale gold wood, and when the words he had hoped for (dreamed of) for so long finally came.

There were to be seven ships, and seven messengers, sent from Turgon on ships built by Círdan. They would carry a message to the West, a plea for help, for mercy, for anything. And, of course, who more fit to captain one of these ships than one of the hardest-working Elves in the entire city?

Voronwë had bowed, tried to hide his joy behind a courteous mask, but he could not imagine that something had not slipped out. At long last, he would see the Sea once more.

They set out at sunset, the beginning of a new day, and Voronwë had steered his ship himself into the red and gold sky, feeling the smooth wood beneath his palms and the sway of the deck beneath his feet — feelings he hadn't realized he had missed until now, because they were so essential and basic, he had not thought to even miss them. And he was here, after so long — and it felt like home.

But if the Sea was a harsh mistress, she was cruel and fickle one as well. They had barely passed out of sight of land when the first storm rose, wind whipping the sails and snapping the ropes, making the masts sway and groan, throwing sailors across slick decks — but the craftsmanship of Círdan and his shipwrights was the best in Middle-earth, and the ships held… for now.

There were clinging mists, so thick he couldn't see his own hands in front of his face. There was ice, glittering in a deadly rainbow across decks and rigging, crystal-bright and sharp as glass. There was rain, and hail, and east-driving winds, throwing salt-spray into his face until his eyelashes were crusted and his hair was stiffened with it.

One by one, the ships fell, and still, there was nothing left to do but continue onwards, try to fulfill their mission. If even one ship made it to Valinor — if even one wave-tossed sailor was washed up on the shores of the western-most lands — then all this sacrifice would be worth it.

At times, he swore that if he made it back alive (which he didn't expect to) he would do his best to never set foot in a ship again (which was a lie).

Voronwë's ship was the last. His crew — dead-eyed and hopeless, now, but with the same burning fire in their eyes — was resolute as he to continue on. But the wind drove them backwards, and the storms lashed their ship, spinning them up and down as though they were as light as a leaf. The golden ship, now weather-beaten and scarred, which had served them so faithfully, groaned under the stress — and broke.

He expected to die, and part of him wished for it — if he could not reach the West, at least he could die here, in the Sea's embrace (and maybe it would be peaceful, at last). But even that was denied to him.

He washed up on unfamiliar shores. For a split second, he dared to hope that he was that one sailor — that he had made it to Valinor. But no, these were no holy sands — this rocky outcropping, this was Middle-earth, with all its darkness and bloodshed and despair. He allowed himself to lie there on the rocks, bruised and battered, too exhausted to even cry.

(And perhaps the Sea would take him back into her cold embrace, and his longing would be at an end at last)

Eventually, he was able to drag himself up to higher ground, above the tideline. The Eldar healed quickly, and he could forage in the forest and survive, maybe even find his way back to Valinor. But something held him back — something that drove away the chill in the air and the darkness of the night.

He sat and watched the waves swell, deceptively gentle, like a lover's kiss. It wouldn't do any harm to just sit here for a bit longer and watch the Sea, heed its call. The gulls were wheeling overhead, white wings flashing, and there were stars reflected on the water. The Sea was calling, yes, but it was not the same unreachable voice as in his dreams. It was here, in front of him, and all he wanted to do was sit there and soak it up, listen to that song and pretend that the longing would disappear when he finally turned his back on the unending horizon.


End file.
